Touchstone

13

An hour later Robert and Maeve were down in the Arch watching the dizzying spin of light and shadow. The sound of the generators was very loud, and Maeve could feel the thrumming vibration as the Arch moved up to full power. Her throat tightened and her heart quickened in response. She felt a dreadful sense of fear and anxiety as they edged up to the thick yellow line that marked the boundary between this reality and some other. She wanted to close her eyes and shut the moment out, pretend that she was simply at home in her herb garden and the world was not askew. But a furtive glance at Nordhausen bolstered her courage. He was gazing at the whirl of color, his eyes alight with a sense of awe and excitement.

“Ready?” he asked, extending a hand.

“As ready as I can be,” she said. The professor’s hand closed around hers. She held fast to her parasol with the other hand, the beaded purse now dangling from her shoulder by a thin spaghetti strap. Everything was going to be fine, she told herself. Kelly was on the job in the operations center, and Paul was with him there, both able technicians. It was just a trial run—a Spook Job, like the little jump she had made to the Arabic Library to scout out Paul… just a brief manifestation to make sure their breaching point was clear of contamination in the target area. It would only be a few seconds…

Yet those last few seconds seemed to stretch out to infinity. What was she doing here? The tingling of the particle infusion sent a shiver to the very core of her being. How could this work? How could she stand here and have the root of her life plucked out and tossed into the wind? It was against her every instinct and desire. Why did she volunteer for this? It was madness!

Somewhere, the thinly diffused voice of Kelly came to her, calling down from the control room on the PA system.

“Ready for the big step? On my mark… Three, two, oops… Damn!”

That last word jolted her. It was not so much the unexpected invective as it was the tone of alarm in Kelly’s voice. He had been all business as he counted down—almost nonchalant. Then something happened. She gaped at Nordhausen, hoping to find the answer with him, but he was taken up with the thrill of the hunt and she suddenly felt herself being pulled forward, nearly falling, across the yellow line.

There was a vibrant rush of sound and light, and she instinctively closed her eyes. “Oh god… forgive me…” The words quavered out, drowned out by Nordhausen’s gleeful yelp as they passed into another reality.

Up in the control room Kelly was aghast. He was half way up from his seat, looking around him in a controlled panic as though he needed something at once.

“What happened?” Paul was at the particle infusion station, looking over his shoulder. The moment Kelly swore, his attention had been jerked away from the monitors and Paul turned to see Kelly’s face, clearly upset, as he pulled out his shirt tail and leaned forward over the console desk.

“Damn, damn, damn!” He swore again, annoyed with himself.

“What’s wrong?” Paul took one last look at the infusion console and started in Kelly’s direction.

“I was counting down and reached for my coffee. Spilled the damn cup all over my keyboard!”

Paul arrived at the workstation, breathless, and saw the mess. The mug was tilted on its side in a pool of dark coffee. Some of the liquid had run into the gaps between the keys, and Kelly was trying to swab up the excess liquid with his shirt tail.

“Be careful,” Paul warned. “Watch the chronometer.”

“I know—“ Kelly cut himself short as he glanced at the numerical readout on his console. “What? That’s not right…”

He tapped a function key. “Oh, crap! My keyboard must have shorted out. Quick Paul, I need a replacement—fast!”

The urgency in his voice struck Paul like a jolt of electricity. “Where are they?” he asked. “In the supply room?”

“Hell, there’s no time for that. Just yank one out of one of the other consoles. No—not the history module. Try that one.” Kelly was pointing at an empty workstation and Paul rushed over, unplugging the keyboard in a quiet rush.

By the time he had the board out and over to Kelly’s console he saw that his friend was just staring at the chronometer in disbelief. He immediately knew that this was much more than a simple accident. Something was wrong.

The light gave way to a cold mist that seemed charged with a scintillating static. Maeve stumbled forward, pulled along by Nordhausen and yet clutching to his hand as though her life depended on it. They were over the line and into the Arch. The scene around them disintegrated into darkness as she pressed her eyes tightly closed. Then the cold… so deep and penetrating that she felt as though she could never be warm again. It was the cold of infinity, of annihilation, a graveyard chill that sent uncontrollable shivers through her. For one wild moment she could not feel the ground under her feet. It was as if she was suspended in the air, feather light, or falling in an uncontrolled rush to oblivion. Then her feet felt the substance of something firm again, and the pull of gravity returned. She fell onto her knees, deeply shaken, and the beaded purse that had been dangling from her shoulder, slipped to the floor. The odor of ozone came to her, along with a sickly sweet smell that she could not quite place.

Nordhausen still had hold of her hand, his grip tight and firm. She opened her eyes to see that they were both enveloped in a gray fog, infused with a sheen of pale green light that was accented by faint sparks, like fireflies on a misty night. Tremors of cold still rippled through her body, but they grew still, and the warmth of life returned to her—a feeling of substance and presence, and weight.

“What?” The professor’s voice quavered out, and she looked to see the excitement in his eyes giving way to puzzlement. “Where are we?” He was looking around in amazement. “Now what has Kelly done this time?”

Presence of mind had finally returned to her, and she remembered who she was, and what she was about. Maeve struggled up, aided by Nordhausen, and the two of them stood gaping at their surroundings. This was not the road to Alexandria. They were not in the quiet of the early dawn near Abukir Bay, and worse yet, as the seconds passed, interminably long, she realized that they were not being pulled back to their own time. A Spook Job was just a quiet manifestation in the target zone and then return—or at least it was supposed to be. This was only the second time they had tried such an operation. If it worked as Kelly planned, they should be standing in the Arch corridor by now, safe in the year 2010. But instead they were gawking at the simple furnishings of a small room. The dull brown walls were shaped of dried earth with embedded stone, and hung with brightly colored tapestries. A thick rug covered the floor, with an ornate pattern in a stylized geometric design. Arabic, she thought, her mind filling in the blanks as they struggled to understand what had happened to them.

“He’s done it again,” Nordhausen was saying, but Maeve was still taking in her surroundings. Her eyes fixed on a low wood table, a few feet in front of them. There was a small tea pot of polished brass sitting on the table. Tiny curls of steam emerged from the curved spout, spiraling up into the dissipating fog about them. A simple porcelain cup was tilted on its side, the brown stain of freshly spilled tea still wetting the lacquered table top. She noted the simple decoration painted on the cup, a star embraced by a sickle moon and surrounded by Arabic writing.

“Damn the man,” said Nordhausen, “he’s botched the numbers again, I tell you! Now where in blazes are we?”

Maeve was still speechless as she watched the professor move cautiously toward a single open window on the far wall. It was clear that the shift had failed. They were not on their intended coordinates, at least not spatially. God only knew where they were, or when, but Nordhausen was already getting far too curious. She forced herself to speak, her voice dry in her throat.

“Stay put, Robert…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll just have a look out the window. What is this place?”

Maeve’s mind began to piece things together, with one thought stumbling after another. It was daylight. The warm light was streaming through the single open window where Nordhausen was now standing, and gleaming off the polished buttons of his blue waistcoat. The spilled teacup pulled at her, suggesting that someone had been in this very room only a moment before. It was a single person, for there was only one cup. Perhaps he was sitting down for morning tea when the two of them began to manifest. Lord, what a fright that man would have had! Spook Job was a good handle for a mission like this, but something was clearly wrong. She looked about, noticing a half open door behind them, but there was no sign of anyone else. The poor fellow must have been frightened out of his mind.

She took in more details of the room… The rug was a simple prayer rug, undoubtedly oriented toward Mecca, wherever that was. There was a wash bowl, half filled with water to one side of the table, and a book lay upside down on the floor. She stooped to see that it was a copy of the Holy Koran.

“Lord,” she whispered… “Where are we? What have we done?”

Nordhausen turned from the window. “You can blame this on Kelly,” he accused. “He’s mucked up the breaching numbers again. It’s daylight, so the temporal shift is off as well. Looks like a city of some kind out there.” He gestured to the open window. “Damn quiet. Must be early morning.” His eye fell on a weapon set by the window, and he reached for it out of curiosity.

Maeve’s eyes widened. “Put that down,” she hissed in a strained whisper.

“What? No harm, Maeve. I’ll just have a quick look. Maybe it will give us a clue as to the time. At least we’re not in the Cretaceous. Whatever that rogue has done, it may only be a minor error. Look here, a nice strait barreled matchlock musket—fully primed and ready to fire…”

“Robert! Put that down. We mustn’t tamper with anything in this Milieu. It’s plain that something has gone wrong. Kelly will be trying to pull us out as quickly as he can. Besides…” She looked over her shoulder at the half open door. “I think someone was here when we came through.”

“What?”

“Look at the tea setting. The pot is still hot and the cup has been spilled.”

“Right you are,” said Nordhausen as he took note of the scene. “Well let’s hope we at least made it to Egypt.” His mind jumped ahead to a new assessment. “These pressed mud walls would be very typical of construction at the target date, and if this musket is any indication of the time I’d say this was a 19th Century weapon. Maybe we’re not too far off the mark after all.”

The quiet of the early morning was broken by a thrumming sound in the distance. It quickly resolved to a rhythmic beat, and Nordhausen edged to the window again, his head cocked to one side as he listened. The sound grew ever louder, accented with a steady tum, tum, tum of a drum beat. He leaned out, taking in a narrow cobbled street, and saw that a column of uniformed men were marching up the alley. They were led by an officer with a brightly colored plume on his cap and a drawn sword. Behind him came a group of twenty men at arms, all in blue, their long muskets shouldered in smart order, their faces stern and grim, as though set in stone.

A group of riders followed, and the professor squinted at the man in the lead, sitting bolt upright on a white stallion. He was clearly the officer in charge. Every aspect of his being shouted authority, with one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his saddle and the other grasping the rein with a sure and steady grip. The gold tasseled shoulder pauldrons marked him with high rank, though he wore no headgear. A curled tress of dark hair fell on his wide forehead, and his eyes surveyed the narrow alley as the column came on. Nordhausen squinted, rubbing his eyes as he looked, as though trying to clear his vision. The man seemed suddenly obscured in a violet haze. He blinked, and looked again with an expression of recognition and surprise stretching his features.

“Look here, Maeve!” He waved at her. “Come to the window!”

“Get away from there, Robert! What’s got into you? Put that thing down and get over here. We mustn’t move. We mustn’t touch anything. Don’t you understand?”

“It’s him, Maeve! Oh, if only Paul could see this. Look, he’s just there.” He gestured with the musket, jabbing it at the open window as the sound of marching feet beat heavily on the cobblestone alleyway.

Back in the control room Kelly was frantically trying to replace his damaged keyboard. He got the new unit plugged in, and shifted into his chair with a huff.

“What happened?” Paul was gesturing at the chronometer. “The readings are stabilizing, Kelly.” He looked at the particle infusion station, surprised to see the light was still holding at green. It should be yellow by now, he knew, and the retraction sequence should be kicking in to bring Maeve and Robert back.

“I must have hit the keyboard when I lunged to try and stop that spill. It looks like I triggered my shift modulator by accident.”

“Shift modulator? Is that something new?”

“I installed it last week. It was a new module I was using to make minor adjustments to the breaching sequence. I set it so I could nudge things by minutes, hours, days or even whole years if I needed to adjust the temporal locus, and I have spatial flux programmed as well.”

“You moved them?” Paul gave him a wide eyed look.

“Well, not intentionally. It was an accident!”

“Where? Where are they, Kelly. The particle decay is still green. Why didn’t the emergency retraction scheme kick in?”

Kelly bit his lip, his eyes darting from one reading to another as he thought. “It did kick in—or at least it tried to. Look!” He pointed at an indicator on the console. “It went into emergency suspend mode.“

Paul dragged a chair over and slid in next to Kelly, his dark eyes taking in the situation as his friend pointed out the indicators. “You bumped them in space-time when you spilled the coffee,” he concluded. “Where are they?”

“Not far, I hope,” said Kelly. “Looks like they moved ahead of the target date… here, I’ve got a good reading now. They’re early.”

“How early?” Memories of that wild shift into the chasm of time flooded back to him now, and he was visualizing Robert and Maeve, all dressed up in their 19^th Century garb, as they strolled through the late Cretaceous.

“Just a few days or so,” Kelly reassured him, almost as if he could read Paul’s apprehension. “Damn, I was supposed to turn the number lock off on my keypad before I initiated the run, but I just forgot.”

“Have you got a new breaching date?”

“Just a second… Here it comes now: July 2^nd, just a few days off… but wait, It looks like the year is off as well. I’m reading 1798.”

“Backup chronometer agrees,” said Paul. His mind was reaching back in the history, and he knew the date was familiar. He reached for one of the volumes in Nordhausen’s research pile and began flipping through the pages. He did not have to look far, for all the relevant data was bookmarked. “Just as I thought,” he said with a deflated expression on his face. “It’s the date of the initial landing. Napoleon has just arrived off Alexandria. Lord, they’ll be right in the middle of things If the spatial coordinates hold.”

“They didn’t,” said Kelly sheepishly. “I really screwed this one up. Sorry Paul. Looks like I bumped them a few kilometers as well. All that from a damn coffee mug!”

“Pushpoint,” said Paul. “Little things have great effects. Let’s get them back, Kelly. The infusion chamber can’t hold for long. It must be feeding in the particle reserve to keep the singularity spinning. We have to yank their butts back to Berkeley, and fast!”

“I’m on it. You get over to the infusion module and hold that mix steady while I reset the retraction to these new coordinates. If they have their wits about them, and stay put, we should be able to pick up their pattern signatures from the flux.”

“Let’s hope Maeve has the good sense to keep a tight rein on Nordhausen.” Paul was hurrying, his movements betraying both the urgency and danger inherent in the situation. The error was not bad, but the hold they had on Robert and Maeve was keyed to the original target dates. The system tried to run a retraction scheme, but they were not there. Now Kelly was feeding in the new coordinates, a worried look on his face.

“There’s no way I can key this decimal in time. I’m patching the retraction vectors right into the space-time chronometer data. It’s the only way I can be sure.” He toggled three switches, and held his breath.

“Robert!” Maeve raised her voice as much as she dared, but it was clear that the professor was in a daze of excitement. He was completely beside himself, eyes alight with the fire of discovery and a ruddy glow on his cheeks. She had to do something. Kelly would be working, he’d be trying to pull them out. Robert had moved from his initial point of manifestation, and her instincts told her that this would complicate things, perhaps fatally, if Kelly was trying to retrieve them. In spite of her caution she found herself rushing across the room and grabbing Nordhausen by the lobe of his right ear in a hard pinch. “Damn it, Robert! Put that down and come away from the window!”

There was a loud crack, deafening as the musket went of in a flash. The professor was so startled by the ignition that the musket tumbled wildly from his grasp and fell with a hard thump to the pressed clay floor.

Maeve released him, covering her ears with the shock of the sound, but she quickly recovered and seized hold of Robert’s arm. There was shouting and wild commotion outside the narrow window. She heard the neigh of a horse and the scuffle of many booted feet. Deep voices barked out commands and she immediately recognized the language as French.

“What are you doing!” Nordhausen was aghast. “I could have killed someone! Do you know who’s out there?”

The world was spinning out of control. Maeve felt a dizzy sensation of nausea settle in her stomach. All she could think of was getting back to that first point of entry on this strange new world. It was the only safe island she could see, a retreat to the moment when they had first appeared, as though none of this had even happened. She would stand there, close her eyes, and make it all go away. But even as she pulled the professor along, she could hear the men outside drawing ever nearer.

“Stand here,” she commanded, her eyes riveting the professor. “And whatever happens next, don’t you dare move a muscle or say one single thing if those men find us here—understand?”

Nordhausen gave her a breathless look, but nodded his assent. They could hear men below them in the alleyway beating on a wooden door with the butts of their muskets. The door gave way with a loud crash and booted feet tramped into the rooms below them. The sound of their approach drove a rising anxiety through Maeve as she whispered a silent prayer.

“Kelly… Do something!”

Nordhausen took her hand again and the two stood stone still, just as they had been in the Arch only moments ago. Maeve felt faint as the voices and heavy footfalls grew louder on the stairs below them. The soldiers were hastening up to the second floor, kicking open one door after another.

14

“You’d better hurry, I’m losing the particle density.” Paul saw the reading turn yellow, and he knew the quantum fuel that was keeping the breaching sequence alive was ebbing fast. Kelly gave him an anguished look, hesitated for one brief moment, and then toggled a console switch. There was only one thing he could do now, though it meant he would have to sacrifice one of his emergency pattern signatures. He crossed his fingers, hoping that he would not have to move the travelers a second time.

The light on the infusion chamber began to blink red, and then went out. Paul looked over his shoulder with a worried expression. “I hope you have them, Kelly. The infusion mix is expended and the Arch is out of gas.”

“Hold on…” Kelly was watching his chronometer digits settle on a new target date. “Got them!” he exclaimed.

“Paul sighed with relief. “Good, I’ll go down and smooth things out with Maeve while you re-set things up here.”

“Umm… Don’t bother,” said Kelly, and the tone of his voice put Paul on edge.

“Why not?”

“Well, they’re not in the Arch. I knew we wouldn’t have enough intermix on the infusion chamber, so I just used my emergency pattern signature to nudge them forward to the correct target.”

“You mean…”

“Yup. I moved them to July 15, 1799. There was nothing else I could do once the particle infusion went yellow. There just wasn’t enough particle density for a retraction. But I took three pattern signatures while they were in the flux tube before the mission launch, so I just grabbed their pattern and we had just enough gas to get them where they were supposed to be in the first place.”

“But how will we get them back? This was just supposed to be a Spook Job.”

“We’ve still got the main mission retraction scheme programmed. When they manifest on the original target coordinates, and don’t get yanked home, they’ll realize something went wrong. They’ll just have to start the mission early.”

“Assuming the target coordinates were clear,” Paul suggested the one thing that could pose a real complication for them now. “What if they manifest right in the middle of a column of Turkish soldiers? I’m still a bit nervous about that breaching site. These blind jumps could be dangerous. That little coffee spill sent them back to the very day someone took a pot-shot at Napoleon as he entered Alexandria. Lord, who knows where they landed?” Then another question took the forefront of his thinking. “Did they shift OK?”

“Solid Green. Readings were 100%,” Kelly assured him. “I just patched in the original target vectors and bumped them forward. A little jump like that has almost no chance of pattern loss on the shift. Let’s just hope the target was clear.” He looked down at his coffee cup with a frown. “New rule,” he said with finality as he pointed a finger at his mug. “No coffee at the workstations during mission time.”

“Right,” Paul agreed, but his mind was already centuries away, wondering what was happening with Robert and Maeve.

And Robert and Maeve were wondering much the same. They heard heavy booted feet clomping down the hallway and, just as the door gave way, Robert felt the chill accompanied by that airy lightness of being that characterized time shift. He vaguely discerned the shape of a uniformed man bursting through the doorway, but then the milky green haze of eternity masked his vision, and his stomach rolled with the shift. This time he closed his eyes, hoping that Maeve had done the same. A moment later he felt the solidity of soft earth under his feet, and the travelers appeared in a haze of icy fog.

Robert steadied himself, feeling Maeve’s hand tight in his own. When he opened his eyes the room they were in had vanished. It was dark now but, as his eyes adjusted, he realized that it was just before dawn. The sky was lightening and slowly revealing a gray-brown landscape of undulating, sandy ground, with small stands of date and palm trees scattered here and there. There was a tinge of salt in the air, and Robert breathed deeply, taking in the fresh breeze that was coming off the ocean. He could not see the shoreline from the low depression in the ground where they huddled in the cold, but he could feel it, and hear the distant roll of wave sets breaking on the shore.

“Where are we?” Maeve’s voice was unsteady.

“I… Well I think this must be the road to Alexandria.” Nordhausen squinted trying to make out the lay of the land. “Kelly must have moved us back on our original target. I wonder where we were before?”

“Thank God,” said Maeve. “We almost had a nasty encounter there. When will you learn to keep your hands to yourself, Robert?”

“The damn musket wouldn’t have gone off in the first place if you would mind your own rules!” The professor was still rubbing his right earlobe where Maeve had given him a hard pinch. He stood upright, composing himself and straightening his white wig. There was a tinge of hesitation to his movements now, as if he expected another time shift at any moment. “At least the target vectors are clear. When the retraction kicks in, keep your eyes closed. In fact, close them now. We’ll need our wits about us for the real shift. I’ll give Kelly the thumbs up and he can drop us back here when the Arch is ready—unless you have an hour’s meeting in mind for debriefing on that little mishap we just went through.”

“Mishap? What’s got into you, Robert? You knew something was amiss and yet you went wandering off to gawk out the window. That bit with the rifle serves you right.”

“It was a musket, and I was only looking at it—until you tried to rip my ear off. I hope no one was injured when the damn thing fired. Do you have any idea who was out there? Napoleon! Yes, he was riding behind a column of French Guardsmen, and I have little doubt that those soldiers thought we were shooting at them. If someone was hit, it could have caused a major transformation. Let that be a lesson to you, my dear miss outcomes and consequences.”

Maeve just folded her arms and gave him a smoldering look. Then it occurred to her that they were still there. They weren’t being pulled back to the Arch complex in Berkeley. Whatever had caused the brief misfire was still plaguing the mission.

Nordhausen’s next remark seemed to vocalize her own thoughts. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Spook Job thing has a limited duration, right?” He fidgeted, looking around as if he was waiting for an overdue train. “Well,” he breathed heavily, “we’re here for good, I think.”

“Right,” Maeve agreed. “Something went wrong. We’re here for good.” There was very little enthusiasm in her tone, and the thought of what she was saying suddenly struck her. What if something really did go wrong and they could no longer get home? Where were they, exactly? Was Nordhausen correct in assuming they were back on the original target date?

At that moment the landscape about them was bathed in the bright yellow light of a rising sun. Brilliant shades of ochre and orange chased long shadows from the trees, and the sky took on a wonderful shade of azure blue. Sea birds wheeled above them, calling through the light morning mist.

“Dawn,” said Robert. “That’s a good sign. We were supposed to arrive just a few minutes before sunrise on the 14^th. “

“So it seems,” said Maeve.

They stood in silence, taking in their surroundings. They were standing in the lee of a sandy dune, and Maeve saw that a thin track led away in both directions, just a few yards off. “The road to Alexandria?” she looked to the professor for confirmation and he nodded his agreement.

Maeve waited, looking this way and that, while the professor watched her with a half amused expression on his face. He looked like an English barrister who had caught a serving wench pilfering something in the streets.

“Well?” he asked, eyebrows raising in a smug expression.

“Well what?”

“Do we just stand here and wait for Kelly to pull us out, or does my lady give her leave for a bit of a stroll?” He pointed toward the sound of the ocean. “That would be north, I suppose. So, if we head east we should come up on the outskirts of Rosetta in no time at all.” He made a grand gesture, infusing the movement with all the politeness he could muster, but it was clear that he was enjoying Maeve’s discomfiture. “Unless of course you wish to insist we stay put. In that case we can just stand here for another forty-eight hours until the final retraction scheme kicks in.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Maeve flashed him a look that made it evident she was on to his little game. “Very well,” she took a deep breath and looked past Nordhausen’s grin to the east. At that moment she seemed to pale with fright, and pointed down the winding road with an unsteady hand.

The professor looked to see the source of her anxiety. A group of horsemen were riding hard, the dull thump of the horse’s hooves on the earth now apparent. “Oh my,” he said. “Unexpected company.”

“What do we do?” Maeve gave him a wide eyed look.

Nordhausen scratched the side of his ear, still feeling the twinge where Maeve had pinched him a moment ago, a year ago…

“Well we certainly can’t outrun them—not with you in those skirts and all. Besides. They look French. I say we stand where we are. Running would only arouse undue suspicion.”

“Damn,” Maeve cursed. “I’m… I’m not ready yet, Robert. What if—”

“Nonsense,” Robert cut in. “You say you can manage a bit of French, eh? Just stick to your story. We’re Americans… Off that damned ship—what was it?”

“The Perla,” said Maeve.

“Right. Well stick to your story and everything should be fine.”

“Oh, they don’t look friendly…” The riders were coming too fast, with an urgency that seemed out of place. One man, a heavy set figure in the lead, was pointing at them now. The morning breeze lifted his long gray cape behind him as he rode. Then Maeve heard him shout, and point directly at them.

“Voila!” The riders wheeled and reined in hard. There were two French cavalrymen in dark blue uniforms, and the man in gray, who gave them both an odd, expectant look. “Bonjour, Monsieur… Madame.” He nodded his head in a polite bow.

One of the soldiers spoke to the man in gray, his voice stern and demanding. Maeve listened, mentally translating as best she could. ‘These are the people you seek?’

“Certainement! Mercí, Capitain.” The man in gray smiled broadly, the early morning light highlighting the rouge of his full cheeks, his dark eyes glinting with excitement. “Mercí.” He was nodding his thanks to the two French soldiers, and speaking to them now, in a lowered tone of voice.

“Très bien.” The soldiers steadied their mounts, and one gave Robert and Maeve a long stare, somewhat suspicious from the look in his eye. “Américain, e?”

Maeve realized he was speaking to them, but the nature of the question took her by surprise. How could this man know they were Americans? A gentle nudge by Nordhausen prompted her to speak.

“Pardonnez-moi, mon Capitan.” She was quick to gather her wits, and effected a polite curtsy, as she knew she should. “Excusez mon français. Je ne parle qu’un petit peu de français. Est-ce qu’il y a quelqu’un qui parle anglais? Does anyone speak English?”

“I believe I can assist in that regard.” The man in gray gave her a gracious bow, introducing himself. “May I present myself as someone you should both know quite well—if I make my point clear enough.” He gave the two soldiers a sideward glance as he spoke, and his manner made it obvious that he was trying to convey some urgency. “Call me LeGrand. And do act like you’ve known me for some time. These gentlemen are quite busy, I’m afraid, and I should dearly love to send them on their way without further incident.”

Robert and Maeve just stared at him for a moment, not knowing what to say. Nordhausen’s eyes narrowed beneath the curls of his white wig and he was about to ask how this man could have possibly known they were Americans. Something in LeGrand’s manner spoke of caution, however, and so instead he opted for discretion.

“Why of course, monsieur LeGrand,” he began, eying his concern at Maeve.

“Docteur, LeGrand,” Maeve corrected him. She had quickly surmised that something was very odd about all this, but her instinct for caution needed no encouragement. It occurred to her that this man must be one of the Savants who accompanied the French on their mission to Egypt. In that case, it was more than likely that he would be a professional, or at least highly degreed.

“You are too kind, Madame,” said the heavy man in gray. “How auspicious that I have found the two of you. You see, these men have been quite on edge of late. The Turkish fleet is anchored not ten leagues away in Aboukir Bay. Word is that they’ve swarmed ashore by the thousands. Most inconvenient for our work here, wouldn’t you say? In fact, this very road is growing ever more dangerous for travelers. Won’t you be so kind and accompany me to town? I have sent for a carriage, which should arrive at any moment.” He winked at the French Captain as he spoke. “Why, there it is now!”

LeGrand pointed at a distant silhouette on the road to the east, backlit by the blazoning sun. He spoke quickly to the soldiers in French, and they regarded the carriage with a look approaching disdain.

“Monsieur Fauche, the good Captain here, is somewhat bothered by civilian doings these days. It has been an arduous campaign this past year, you understand. He has had his hands quite full, and needs no bother from the likes of scholars and hangers on, or so he describes the men of letters these days.”

“Of course,” said Maeve, her wits about her now. “Please thank the Captain for his gracious escort. You say the Turks have landed nearby?” She feigned surprise, casting a fearful glance over her shoulder toward the sea. “A lady cannot be too careful under such circumstances, yes? Please tell the Captain how comforting it is to have the protection of his guard.” She offered a smile, and the Captain met her glance with a pleased expression as Le Grand conveyed her thanks. The Frenchman tipped his cap with a gentlemanly nod of the head, sitting a bit taller in the saddle now.

“Bonjour, Madame,” he said with a smile, then nodded to Nordhausen in farewell as he pulled his mount about and gestured at his compatriot. The two men rode off, heading west on the road to Alexandria.

“A patrol,” LeGrand explained. “Wanted to know what I was doing out here, in fact. How lucky for me to happen upon the two of you as I did.”

“Oh?” Nordhausen’s suspicions needed an answer now. “And just what were you doing out here at the break of dawn, Doctor, if you do not mind my asking?”

“Why, I was waiting for you, of course.” LeGrand smiled at them, gesturing warmly at the approaching coach. “I believe the lady dropped something a moment ago, and I thought to return it.”

Nordhausen looked at Maeve, and they were both bewildered again, but LeGrand let out a hearty laugh and reached into a pouch that was sewn into the lining of his riding cape. “Madame,” he said warmly as he held out an object.

It was all Maeve could do to stop her jaw from gaping open, for LeGrand was holding her beaded purse.

15

The carriage arrived in a flourish of dust, a small covered gig drawn by a single horse. LeGrand gestured magnanimously, though his eyes were wells of apology. “Forgive me, but it is simply impossible to find a decent carriage in Egypt these days. I managed to hitch this together in the bazaar. The French have confiscated most of the good riding stock, but I found a plough horse and got him for a good price.”

Robert and Maeve were still taken aback, Maeve staring from the beaded purse, to Robert, to LeGrand in bewilderment.

“Oh, do hop on,” said their host. “The driver knows the way, and when we reach town I’m sure you’ll have a lot of questions. I’ll meet you there soon. Good Day!” He rode ahead, and Robert shrugged his shoulders.

“Ladies first,” he said. “We may as well ride. It will be quite warm soon, and who knows how far the town is.”

They climbed into the carriage and the driver, a surly looking peasant in a soiled white tunic, goaded the horse with a thin stick to get it moving. They sat on a plain wood seat, and the carriage cover was little more than a stretch of canvas draped over a trellis of thin cedar.

“What do you make of this?” Maeve was still gawking at the beaded purse, her mind trying to grasp how it could have come into LeGrand’s hands.

“That’s the same purse you took through the Arch?”

“Exactly the same. I had it on my shoulder… but now that you mention it, I can’t recall having it with me when we manifested here. I think it must have slipped off my shoulder when we first arrived—in that house—wherever that was.”

“Very strange…” Nordhausen eyed the purse with a furrowed brow, considering. “Perhaps it shifted to this milieu separately?”

“And LeGrand just happens across it by chance and makes a miracle guess that it must certainly belong to a hapless American couple who would be arriving soon along that very same road.” The tone of her sarcasm quickly dispatched any rational argument the professor had thought to make.

“Yes… a bit sticky, isn’t it? Did you hear that French Captain call us Americans?”

“He did.”

“I thought the same, but I’ll be damned… What’s going on here?”

“Well,” said Maeve, “at the very least I’d say our cover is blown.”

“Could it be our dress? Are you sure this clothing is appropriate?”

“The costume is fine. No, I had the sense that LeGrand expected us. He said as much when he gave me this.” She held up the purse

“Perhaps he was only being coy. I mean, suppose the purse did shift separately, and he happened upon it by chance. He spies us on the road and makes the natural assumption that we dropped it—that you dropped it. Why, if I found such a thing I would certainly assume it to be the possession of a lady. And you’re the only one who matches that description in these parts right now.” He resurrected his first argument, but Maeve just shook her head.

“This is simply too much of a coincidence to have happened by chance, ” she said. “His actions were very telling; very deliberate. He was making subtle implications from the first word out of his mouth. I think he meant exactly what he said, Robert. He expected us here. He was riding out with this carriage to find us and, if that’s the case, then he’s—”

“Not from this milieu?” Nordhausen finished her thought. “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit. I go off to Jordan to recover my Ammonite, and look who I run into—an Arab on a courier mission to the twelfth century! It’s clear now that these people are operating throughout the continuum, whoever they are. But how would this LeGrand fellow know we would be here?”

“You forget that if he is another time traveler, they have hundreds of years to research what we do… what we’ve done… what we’re going to do. It’s maddening, but how else to explain this?”

“I think we had best get some answers from LeGrand.”

The way was not far, and they soon found themselves at the outskirts of a dry and dusty looking town. There were a few small farms, brown fields watered by narrow irrigation channels, with clusters of date trees lining the way ahead. The buildings seemed adobe mud for the most part, though farther on they began to encounter a few more substantial stone structures. It was to one of these, a single story inn at the edge of town, that the driver took them. Nordhausen was pleased to see that LeGrand was already waiting for them, his horse tied to a rickety hitching post.

Dismounted he turned out to be a fairly short man, broad in the shoulders, yet with a sturdiness that tended more to brawn than to excess weight. Gray-brown tresses of hair dangled freely from beneath a floppy headpiece, framing his round face and high, ruddy cheeks. As the carriage pulled up he smiled broadly, his eyes alight with a mischievous glint that seemed ignited by his wit. “Greetings, my American friends. I trust your ride was enjoyable. Lovely morning, though I’m afraid it will get very hot this afternoon. Then we’ll have the flies, the French soldiers, and all the rest. But for now, may I offer you a quiet place to shelter from the sun? Perhaps a cup of tea?”

“You are too kind,” said Maeve. “We have a hundred questions, Doctor LeGrand, not the least of which is this purse.”

“Ah, yes, the purse. I thought that would tickle your imagination. Let me see… How did I come by it, and how in blazes would I know it was yours, let alone that you would be here, this very morning, on the road to Alexandria?”

“Precisely,” said Nordhausen, somewhat annoyed with the man’s flippant manner.

“Well, the lady left it behind. You really should be more careful, I suppose. But, seeing as though you are still relatively new to this business, I can understand.”

“Left it behind?” Nordhausen pressed him. “What do you mean? You found it on the road, yes?” He put forward his hypotheses, hoping that LeGrand would confirm his guess and relieve them of their worst fears.

“On the road? Not exactly,” said LeGrand. “If you must know, I found it a year ago, in Alexandria. You see, I had the pleasure of riding in the van with Napoleon’s guard when he entered the city that day. Imagine my surprise when someone took a pot shot at the man from a window overlooking the alley.”

Nordhausen gaped at the remark, looking at Maeve in amazement.

“Yes,” LeGrand pressed on. “No one was hurt, thank goodness. The soldiers were very efficient. They searched every house on the street and found a recently discharged musket. But the assailant—the assailants I should say, had vanished. Witnesses claim they saw a man and a woman at the window when the shot was fired. It was very strange… until I found the purse, of course.”

“I don’t understand,” said Maeve.

“Well it was clearly European in style, beaded in the fashion of 19^th century France. By the way, your costuming is very good, my lady. The professor’s wig is a tad small for his face, but I think it lends him an air of credibility, wouldn’t you say?”

Nordhausen resisted the instinct to straighten his wig, folded his arms, and glared at the man. “See here… speak plainly now. Just who are you and how do you know us? How did you know we would be here on this road?”

“Well the purse, of course. It was all written down. Really, Miss Lindford, you should be a bit more cautious. Using a ball point pen to make notations is one thing, but taking the note with you through the Arch is quite another. Tisk, tisk.”

That last remark swept away any notion that this man might be a local. Maeve looked at Robert and the two of them quickly recalibrated their thinking to the proposition that LeGrand was indeed a fellow traveler in time.

“Oh, it was all in your notes,” LeGrand continued. “You penned the target date you were trying to reconnoiter, the premise of your entry, details about the Perla, the missing Americans lost at sea, your idea in assuming their identity—quite clever, really. But then again, I should expect nothing less from the redoubtable Maeve Lindford.” There was a special fire in his eyes as he said that, and Maeve was warmed enough to return a half smile.

“You wrote all that down and brought it with you?” Now it was Nordhausen’s turn to raise eyebrows over abuse of protocol. “I distinctly remember you chiding me: No PDAs, cell phones, wrist watches, Parker Pens and all. Then you go and slip a note like that into your purse?” Maeve merely squinted in his direction, her thoughts and attention focused entirely on LeGrand for the moment, her mind running down a hundred corridors.

“We had quite a start at first,” LeGrand continued, leading them into the outer court of the inn. “We couldn’t figure out why you would want to get involved in the assassination plot against Napoleon.” He lowered his voice, checking to see if any locals overheard him, but the innkeeper was not at his desk and the courtyard was empty.

“Assassination plot?” Nordhausen was aghast. “Why, we had no such idea, I can assure you.”

“Oh? Then what, pray tell, were you doing there?”

“If you must know, it was a simple error. We never had any intention of manifesting on those coordinates. It was all a mistake.”

“Indeed? How enlightening,” LeGrand smiled. “Here we thought it was all carefully planned—one of your master strokes, if I may. You’re telling me it was an error? How quaint! We never did have good data on that incident. If your manifestation was by chance or accident, then there must be a ripe little Pushpoint out there somewhere that we have yet to find.” He clasped his hands together heartily. “But then again, that’s what makes this business so interesting, eh professor?”

“Riveting,” said Nordhausen, still not over the flare of indignation that had raised his anger. “And just what were you doing there, with the pleasure of riding in the van as Napoleon entered the city? Tell me that, sir.”

“Observation, my dear professor. We suspected something was afoot with that incident. It had all the makings of an Ismaili plot. But I overreach myself. Perhaps we should begin with a better introduction. Come, follow me to my quarters. It will be more secure there, and we can speak without constantly looking over our shoulder.”

He led the way, pointing out a low arch that took them to a narrow hallway lit by guttering oil lamps. “Accommodations are rather dingy here,” he apologized, but I’ve already had the porters lug in some additional bedding—that is if you plan on sleeping before your retraction. Frankly, I can hardly close an eye on a short term mission. Too edgy, I suppose.”

They entered a moderate sized room, the windows covered by loosely woven burlap shades admitting a pale light. It smelled of straw and, strangely, tobacco. There were several threadbare mattresses, little more than rumpled sacks, spread out flat on the earthen floor, and a few low stools for sitting.

“Be my guests,” LeGrand gestured to a small table where a steaming pot of hot water sat next to three porcelain cups. Oh, it’s not the Royal London, but it will have to do for now. I do have some fairly good tea, however. Filched it from the supply wagons used by the Savants. No honey to sweeten the brew, I’m afraid.”

“It will do just fine,” said Maeve, though Nordhausen only glowered, with a look on his face that approached sulking. It was clear to Maeve that he was very suspicious of this interloper, watching him closely.

LeGrand removed his riding cape and hat, shaking out a full head of curly hair. They seated themselves on the low stools and he poured three cups of tea, raising the last in a toast.

“Allow me to introduce myself formally,” he beamed. “I am Jean LeGrand, local Sergeant for this particular milieu.”

“Sergeant?” Nordhausen sniffed his cup, tentatively. “You are in the army?”

“Sergeant of Arms,” LeGrand corrected. “It’s more of an administrative title than anything else, but the Order has military proclivities in times such as these, eh?”

“The Order?” The professor had heard that before—from Paul, who had been grilled by the keepers of Castle Massiaf on his inadvertent mission through the Well of Souls.

“The Order of Temporal Knights—the Knights Temporal, if you like that better. If you haven’t figured all this out by now, you will. No harm in discussing it, I suppose, we’re all in a Nexus Point now, and things will work out one way or another.“

Maeve took a moment to digest that, sipping her tea and nodding appreciation to their host. She looked at Nordhausen, as if to chide him for his bad manners. “Well,” she said at last. “It seems we have a lot to discuss, Doctor LeGrand. To answer your assumption, yes, we were beginning to come to some understanding of all this. I’m sure you will be kind enough to convey the details. This Order you speak of, you are engaged in the business of time travel?”

“Business? That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. I’m not in the financial wing of the Order—you know, the folks that get to go back and make all the right investments to insure funding for future operations. Too dull for my blood. No, I’m on to a different business. I suppose you’d call it intelligence gathering in the parlance of your day. I’m an agent in place, permanently assigned to this milieu.”

“You mean to say you’re a spy?” Nordhausen did not mince words. “For who?”

“Why, for the Order, of course. And if I may ask without offering any insult, what were you about on this mission? Reconnaissance? Oh—I believe the term you used was ‘Spook Job,’ but I suppose that, too, could be considered a bit of a spy job as well. Yes?”

“We have our reasons,” the Professor folded his arms again, still guarded in his dealings with this stranger.

“Don’t we all,” said LeGrand. “You’re here for the discovery, of course. Well, I’ve just got word to be especially alert over the next few days. It seems that something is amiss and they want me to look into it as well. The French are going to start work on the embattlements of Fort Julien tomorrow. We can all go together! It’s not far from here, and I can assure you a safe vantage point for your observation.”

Nordhausen frowned. “You mean to say you’re here for the discovery of… of the stone?”

“Well, not exactly. I’m here all the time—permanent assignment to Napoleon’s mission. It’s what we like to call a rough spot in the timeline as it concerns our general operations—one of those nasty little points of interface between the Muslim world and the West. I came over with the fleet when it first set sail from Italy. I’m one of the Savants, you see.”

“You manifested over a year ago? You can stay here that long?”

“My friend, you can stay anywhere you please, for as long as you like, if you know how to go about it. You have to find someone whose Meridian is abruptly cut short in the milieu you are targeting, and then assume that identity—why, just like those unfortunate Americans on the Perla. You get the idea. In fact, we got it from you, Miss Lindford. You set a fine example for us indeed.”

“You are too kind,” said Maeve.

“Yes. In my case I have assumed the identity of a scholar taken by brigands on the road as he made his way to the mustering of the fleet. It took some doing to find a spot for me. There were only three candidates, and this one, LeGrand, was the only one that offered good prospects. He was an only son, orphaned from an early age; a bit of a recluse, and someone whose last close tie on earth is about to pass away. His aunt has a touch of the fever, and it will claim her life in another week or so. In fact, he was set on this mission because his life in Europe had come to dismal ends—no friends, too many enemies, that sort of thing. He was on the run from bill collectors as much as anything else. In any case, it worked out perfectly. I can take on his identity, enjoy the harrowing sea journey as the French fleet plays cat and mouse with Nelson on the way over. I can arrive in Aboukir Bay on that glorious morning when Napoleon first lands, and join his triumphant entry into Alexandria.”

“Amazing,” said Nordhausen.

“Oh, it’s a wonderful assignment. Yes, it has it’s dull moments, and you certainly have to keep your wits about you. The march across the desert is a nasty experience for the soldiers. I went that way the first time and nearly died of thirst and heat. Then I got wise and stayed with the river flotilla on the Nile my second time through. There’s danger on that route as well. We have a run in with Murad Bey and his bloodthirsty Mamluks, but that’s nothing compared to the trek across the desert.”

“You make it sound as if you’ve been here before,” said Nordhausen.

“Before? Yes. I’ve done the whole tour three times. I’ve seen it all: the battle of the Nile, the first look at the great pyramids, that marvelous engagement with the Mamluks there, and the insurrection in Cairo. That first year is full of excitement. Then Napoleon gets this idea about driving through to cut the British Empire in half and isolate their operations in India. He’s such a rogue, that one. I don’t really enjoy that part of the tour. There’s that long march across Sinai, the nasty engagements along the way. The shooting of the prisoners and the siege of Acre are particularly unpleasant. When you throw the plague into the mix, you can see that it becomes rather trying. But I have to go along. It’s part of the duty. You never know when something will come up that you don’t really expect. The second assassination attempt on Napoleon took place just a few weeks ago on the retreat.”

“Yes!” Nordhausen latched on to that. “Paul pulled me aside and gave me an earful about that before we left. He said there was a man who shot at Napoleon on the road. Four guides cornered him and put their carbines to the man’s belly—but all four misfired.”

“That was quite a scene!” LeGrand slapped his thick knee to accent the professor’s remark. “Would that be Mr. Dorland you are referring to?”

“What? You mean Paul? Yes, of course.”

“Ah, what a genius the man must be. I must say, this is quite an honor to meet the two of you this way. It’s a perfect example of what I was just describing. You weren’t here on my first two tours, you see. At least I was unaware of your presence if you were. That incident in Alexandria was the breadcrumb that put us on the right trail.”

“Alexandria?” Nordhausen was now building up an excited curiosity, his suspicions melting as LeGrand unraveled his story.

“Of course! You see, the first two times we thought it was a local Arab—a dissident, or perhaps even an agent, who fired the shot from that alley window in Alexandria. We found the room, the discharged musket, the prayer rug, washing bowl and a copy of the Koran opened to a particularly telling passage. Imagine my surprise this last tour when I happened across that purse! I sent it back at once, of course—note and all. They put the full resources of the research department on it. Outcomes and Consequences went round and round, and the upshot of the lowdown is that I get a message to be particularly alert on the morning of July 14^th. I’m told to look for two Americans on the road to Alexandria—given precise coordinates in fact. Lo and behold, I am graced by the arrival of Nordhausen and Lindford! Imagine my surprise and delight!”

“You say you sent the purse back?” Now it was Maeve’s turn to take up the questioning.

“Of course. Any evidence of temporal contamination must be removed from the Meridian at once. It’s a rule we have. I sent it back for analysis, and it was returned, via special courier, only last night. I was told to look for two Americans on the road west of the town. Research must have found trace indicators linking your arrival here to the incident last year in Alexandria. Apparently the decision was made to restore the purse to its rightful owner for proper disposition. I was to present it to the lady on the road, and so I have.” He made a graceful bow, smiling as he finished.

“Ingenious,” Nordhausen breathed. “You were aware of our mission all along?”

“Not exactly. As I say, this is something new. The discovery of the purse did indeed lead us to a Founder’s mission. That’s what we call you, if you don’t mind the burden of history. We were not quite sure what to make of it at first but, if they sent in a special courier, the situation must be developing to something very significant. I don’t know what they’ve determined back home in operations, but it seems certain they now believe a Nexus is forming, deepening by the minute, and it appears to be centered here, on the discovery of the Rosetta Stone.”

“Then you know of it?” Nordhausen was getting somewhat agitated.

“Yes, I know of it: the discovery that leads to the decipherment of the hieroglyphics.”

“How strange,” Nordhausen started, then caught himself. “But that makes sense. You’ve been here since Napoleon landed. The variation shouldn’t have had any effect on your recollection. Can you read them?” The professor’s cheeks bore the heat of his excitement now.

“Read them? No. I was never that astute. I’ll leave that to the linguists. It’s just my job to keep watch here and look in on situations that might be… problematic. The last courier told me we got a variation alarm on the incident, and so now I have to be especially vigilant. Our touchstone bank indicated we were missing some vital data, and that’s enough to get alert flags flying all across the continuum.”

Maeve smiled. “I see Kelly’s RAM bank idea took hold.”

“Mr. Ramer? Oh my, there’s another genius. Why, if not for him the whole course of history would play out differently. He’s a Prima Majór, that’s what we call the really indispensable figures of history. It all comes from him, you see. Yes, Mr. Dorland was the initiator, and both of you are absolutely vital to the whole endeavor as well, but Mr. Ramer is the real lynchpin. It all rested on his shoulders. The Ramer Loop, the RAM bank as you call it, all came out of his head, and he set the template down that guides our operations even now. Why, without him it never even happens. In fact—it was never supposed to happen. It was his life that gave birth to this entire Meridian, and everything in it.”

Maeve had an admiring smile on her face. “You’re speaking of that first night now, aren’t you. You’re associated with Mr. Graves, and the people who sent him back the night of the Palma event.”

“Of course,” said LeGrand. “Graves was one of our Grand Masters. His research identified Mr. Ramer as the key to the whole operation. We had to preserve his integrity in the Meridian, or else none of this would have ever taken place.”

Nordhausen seemed deep in thought. “I’m not entirely sure I understand you,” he said. “You’re speaking of the final briefing on Memorial Day weekend before our planned mission to see The Tempest.”

“A fateful night, if I may say so,” LeGrand confirmed.

“Well… I may be a dolt when it comes to this time theory but, if I understand it correctly, Kelly was supposed to die that night—sorry Maeve.” He noticed the twinge in her face as he said that. “Kelly was to be killed in a senseless car accident, and we never had our first time mission. What I don’t understand is this: if that is so, then how was it you were able to send Mr. Graves back? If we never tested the theory, how did you travel in time? Is that a Paradox?”

“Paradox?” LeGrand’s jovial expression darkened at the word, and he cast a reflexive glance at the window. “No, that is not what we understand Paradox to be, but let us not speak of that just now. On the other hand… we are in a Nexus Point, and that does give us a bit of latitude until it resolves. I may be taking a risk in saying this but—”

“You found our research.” Maeve interrupted, matter of factly, and LeGrand breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yes! Exactly! Now that you’ve hit upon the answer yourself, I can explain the whole, if you like. You are quite shrewd, Miss Lindford. I should never underestimate you, my lady.”

Maeve smiled. “Do go on, Doctor LeGrand.”

“Of course. To put it plainly, Palma happened… Yes, I lived in that generation—the last generation of Western sires, or so we thought. We were desperate. The wave sets that destroyed the Eastern Seaboard set off a chain of events that would make your Hollywood movie moguls quite jealous. Suffice it to say that we were at our wit’s end, until we found Mr. Dorland’s research in the memorial site for Mr. Ramer. It was Graves who found it. That’s not his real name, but we have called him that because of his discovery at the cemetery. He hit on the idea that time travel was a possibility, and he was digging into every avenue of research on the subject he could find. Imagine his surprise when he literally dug up the whole of Mr. Dorland’s theory and project data where you had buried it with Mr. Ramer that first terrible week.”

“Buried it?” Nordhausen looked at Maeve, as if she had something to do with the events LeGrand was describing.

“That is what you did—in the previous Meridian—the original time line we now call the Prime Meridian. Mr. Ramer died that night and the grief was too heavy on the three of you to continue the project. It was buried, along with your friend’s body, and the whole matter was laid to rest. Then you all went about the business of trying to survive the horrors that followed. I will not speak any further of that…” His voice trailed off, his eyes now devoid of the mirthful light that had animated them before. LeGrand leaned in, speaking in a near whisper as he continued.

“So it was all found in a graveyard, buried for centuries, and Graves has borne that name with us ever since. He argued that we should attempt the project. We used all your research, and built an Arch with the last of our resources. It was very dangerous for us, you understand. The world bore little resemblance to the days of Western dominance and the reign of Democracy. Sharia was the order of the day. Islam ruled the earth with an iron fist of Koranic discipline. Christianity was all but eradicated. A few of us banded together, in secret, a hidden order struggling to survive in a world where the crucifix was deemed a blasphemy and a certain death mark for any who carried one.”

“Amazing,” said Nordhausen.

“Truly. But Mr. Graves was our own reincarnation of the savior, if I may speak metaphorically. He tested the Arch and found it would work. He created the Order in which we all now serve, and it was his research and determination that set us on a crusade to reverse Palma. It took us years to isolate the vectors and define a plan. The whole project was nearly uncovered three times by the Islamic Fedayeen, but, by some miracle, we preserved our cover. It was Palma… that was the key. But we could not get through the shadow that event cast upon the Prime Meridian. Then Graves had his second epiphany. There was a fully functioning Arch in place before Palma. We did not have to go back through the Shadow to a time well before to the target date to try and alter the event. If we could just reach the Arch in Berkeley, on the night of your final briefing, then we could take action from there, or at least enlist your support. The shadow was not yet formed. It offered us our only prospect for success.”

“Well,” said Nordhausen, “we were certainly happy to be of service but, quite frankly, I can’t think of a single thing we did on that mission to change the course of events. Paul will say the same.”

“Oh really?” LeGrand raised his eyebrows. “Here I was hoping you could enlighten me a bit on that question.”

“Sorry,” said Nordhausen. “We were just stumbling about, trying to find our way through the desert. The whole matter was nothing more than a fit of chance, I suppose. We never even laid eyes on this man we were looking for.” He looked at Maeve, the name escaping him.

“Masaui,” she offered.

“Yes,” said Robert. “Perhaps you could answer one other thing for me, Doctor: What was it that was so special about that man?”

“Masaui?” LeGrand tilted his head to one side, thinking. “Well, nothing, really. He was just a simple farmer and herder of sheep, from a humdrum village in the middle of Turkish occupied nowhere. But you see, that’s exactly the sort you have to look out for. He was the seed of our disaster, to be sure. Oh, it wasn’t Masaui, but his daughter Ada. She was the real problem. If Masaui lived out that train ride, then he goes on to have a daughter, Ada, born some years after the war, in 1922. She was a particularly fetching lady, it seems, and caught the eye of an Arab Emir, one Abu Abas al Sabar. They married in 1942, right in the middle of the second great war, and they had a daughter instead of a son. Now the grand terrorist, Ra’id Husan al Din, was supposed to be born of this Emir but, after the outcome at Minifir was altered, he never comes into being. In the Prime Meridian, time line that led to Palma, the Emir married… someone else. That was the marriage that gave birth to the terrorist, but it was prevented by the beauty and simplicity of Masaui’s daughter, Ada. Once the Emir laid eyes on her, he would have no other woman. Call it love, call it obsession—but whatever it was, it saves the Western world.”

Nordhausen leaned in, somewhat excited. “Then by preventing the destruction of that train, we spared Masaui’s life and allowed his daughter Ada to be born?”

“That’s about the size of it,” LeGrand smiled.

“And the rest is history,” Maeve quipped. “At least the history that we know.”

“Precisely!” LeGrand beamed with admiration. “Saving Mr. Ramer’s life changed everything. He is regarded as the Dean of the Prime Meridian—possibly the most significant life line of any man ever born in the Western world.”

“Well,” said Nordhausen, “he very nearly died at the end of that mission. I understand you people had something to do with his survival.”

“Oh yes,” LeGrand returned. “That’s where Paradox takes shape, a ravenous beast that devours anything that it cannot account for on the newly transformed Meridian. We exerted ourselves mightily to save his life—to preserve his integrity. Thankfully, we succeeded.”

“I see,” said Nordhausen. “Then you had nothing to do with the tampering of the memorial site where we thought to bury Kelly after he vanished?”

“Tampering? What are you speaking of?”

“We buried a video that led to your discovery of the exact spatial and temporal coordinates of Kelly’s last moments.” Again, he looked at Maeve, somewhat apologetically.

“It was Graves who found it—just another ripple from his original discovery, I suppose. His retraction was a timed event. We pulled him out to preserve the Meridian of his own life.”

“Yes,” said Maeve. “I was just about to serve him tea when he turned up missing.”

“We pulled him out,” LeGrand reiterated with a look of pride. “Amazingly, the moment he returned he went straight to the memorial site and found the DVD that Mr. Dorland buried there. Time has a funny way of echoing like that when things change. Do you know that the memorial site you chose was identical to the place you first laid Mr. Ramer to rest in the Prime Meridian?”

“History does not repeat itself,” Nordhausen quipped, “but it does rhyme.”

LeGrand smiled, then a squall of concern clouded his features. Maeve was watching him closely now, an odd expression on her face, as though she were coming to a silent inner conclusion about him.

“But what is this tampering you speak of?” LeGrand went on. “Are you saying the site was violated?”

Nordhausen took a deep breath. “Three days ago Kelly was taken ill—a strange malady. I thought it was my fault at first. I was… doing some research; following up a hunch. Then Paul and I uncovered evidence of tampering at Kelly’s memorial site. Someone dug up the grave and stole the video!”

“What?” Now it was LeGrand who was struck with wide eyed amazement.

“Yes, but it was only fortune or good habits that Paul had a backup file on hand, and we published it all over the Internet. Kelly recovered, but we aren’t quite sure about him.” He looked at Maeve again, but she held up a hand to reassure him that all was well. Her eyes were fixed on LeGrand, a look of suspicion clouding her features now. Then she took the baton herself.

“We think his life is in jeopardy again,” she said flatly. “We think someone is trying to kill him.”

“Good God…” the look on LeGrand’s face made it plain that he knew nothing about the incident. His eyes darkened, and he began to fidget, his hands rubbing together in a nervous activity. “I haven’t heard any of this. The courier said nothing whatsoever about it. If this is true, then we have more on the table here with your arrival than I first thought. This could be a Deep Nexus now; a moment of transformation. We may all have a vital part in deciding things before your mission is over. I was told to be on alert, but I don’t think the Order knows how serious this is. How long are you here?” He asked the question quickly, with a sudden sharpness of mind that set them on edge.

“Forty-eight hours,” said Nordhausen.

“Two days,” breathed LeGrand. “Two days. That’s not much time at all, but then the important things never need much. Damn! I had better have my wits about me. I never thought I would have a hand in a major transformation, but here it is, right in front of me, and all because of a loose strap on that damn purse to set me on your trail.”